The Reality of Sherlock Holmes 1 Bad Dream
by Maura Manette
Summary: PART 1 OF SERIES "Try to remember where it all began…" "You told me to find someone I love and trust, to become closer to them, to use my friendship with them to stop the PTSD." "Listen, John, I told you to find someone, not create someone. Now, try to remember how it all happened." Ella urged. *** Is Sherlock really only a figment of John's imagination?


"Try to remember where it all began…"

"You told me to find someone I love and trust, to become closer to them, to use my friendship with them to stop the PTSD."

"No, John. I told you to find someone, not create someone. Now, try to remember how it all happened." Ella urged. "We need to nip this in the bud, you can't have a make believe friend."

John stared at her fiercely, his tone even.

"How do you know he's not real?"

She scribbled on her notepad; John huffed a sigh and sunk back into his chair.

"I want you to start a blog, record every event that happens with your 'friend' on this blog. Understood?"

"His name is Sherlock."

John sat down in front of his laptop, thinking nervously, _I'm taking a look at my new flat tomorrow._ The small, nagging voice in the back of his head added, _yes, you're being shown around by Sherlock_. Scowling, John tried his best to ignore that voice, returning his attention to the computer screen.

Write about Sherlock. Well, that would have to begin with the day they met, wouldn't it?

John began to type…

_I remembered the first day with Sherlock, it all started when I saw my old University friend Mike Stamford. Actually, it was more like Mike saw me. He was reading the paper, handed it to me after I made mention of my inability to afford London. He told me I could find a flat mate in the paper; I accepted the offer and walked off, not actually aware of what had happened. I was hobbling along, people staring at the man with the cane. It's easier to call me that then confront me and ask why I have a cane, I guess…_

_I hadn't even seen my old University friend; my thoughts were completely consumed by the lingering remnants of my dream. Gunfire, grenades, doors being broken down, out in the open, behind sandbags, back into the open – my comrade fell in front of me, and then I was on top of him._

_My shoulder exploded with pain, I could felt as if my body suddenly had and endless depth, and every cubic inch of that depth in the area of my shoulder was packed densely, overstuffed with pain. There was overflowing pain, which spread like a horrible contagion through to the rest of my body. But all that pain was pulled and pushed by the tide; the bullet that had hit my shoulder was the moon, controlling it._

John stopped, realizing his blog entry was drifting from his first day leading to his encounter with Sherlock to reliving his time in Afghanistan. He pressed 'Ctrl' and 'A', then hit the backspace button. Gone.

The memory of the dream continued to reel inside his head, though.

He had shot upwards, propping himself on his elbows, panting as the echo of an exploding grenade rang in his ears. He couldn't catch his breath, and which each heartbeat, a pulse of pain gushed in both his shoulder and his leg. Regaining his senses, he let himself fall onto his back, hands behind his head. Turning to his inner elbow, he let soft sobs start to slip from him mouth before he pushed them down with a strong inhalation.

A soldier doesn't cry, John had reminded himself.

John looked at the blank entry to his blog, his fingers now laced and against his mouth, before untangling them and closing his laptop. As he went to return it to its drawer, John paused, eyes fixed on his gun. Shaking himself a bit, he hid it under his laptop and shut the drawer a little too harshly.

"How's your blog going?"

"Yeah good, very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

"…You just wrote 'still has trust issues'"

"And you read my writing upside down.

"You see what I mean? John, you're a soldier, it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, you're obviously dealing with some serious post-traumatic stress disorder, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you with Sherlock will honestly help you."

"Nothing has happened yet, I meet him again at the flat tomorrow."

John knocked on the door to 221B Baker Street awkwardly, rocking back on his heels as he waited for an answer. A car door slammed behind him, followed by a low and smooth "_Hello"_. John pivoted around, smiling a little more at the fact that the very same man he met in the lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital was standing in front of him. The same man who somehow already knew his entire life story, aside from the fact that he called Harriet his brother, though sometimes John wasn't so sure which she was either, had made his appearance.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." He said with a feigned grin and a leather-gloved handshake.

"Well, this is a prime spot, must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady – she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

John gawked in shock. "Sorry – you stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh, no, I ensured it."

Just then a petite older woman answered the door, clad in all purple.

"Sherlock!" She crooned.

They embraced briefly before Sherlock politely introduced John to the landlady.

"Hello, come in." She cooed to John.

Sherlock led the way up the stairs, agilely bounding to the top as John struggled behind, awkwardly holding his metal cane. Sherlock waited patiently for him at the landing before swinging the door open.

John looked upon the flat curiously. There was a well – worn leather chair facing another, mismatched chair. On either side of the fireplace there was a bookshelf that spanned the entire height of the wall and was so densely packed with books the shelves looked to be on the point of collapsing. The room was cluttered with an assortment of books, boxes, notebooks, bottles, open desk drawers, and unidentified clutter. Against the back wall was a leather couch, also well worn. John was pleased at the sense of 'home' spilling out of every pile and piece in the room.

"Oh this could be very nice, very nice indeed."

"Yes, yes, I think so, my thoughts precisely."

The pair then spoke at the same instant, Sherlock first with John overlapping.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in-"

"-As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out-"

Sherlock and John eyed each other up uncomfortably. Sherlock strode over to move a stray box lid as John tried to confirm what Sherlock had just said.

"Oh…So this is all-"

"Obviously I can, erm, straighten things up a bit." He stabbed some loose paper to the mantle over the fireplace with a knife. John followed him with his eyes, catching sight of something he had never seen in a domestic dwelling before. Pointing with his cane, he made note of it aloud.

"That's a skull"

"…Friend of mine. And when I say friend-"

"What do you think, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted with perfect timing. "There's another bedroom upstairs… if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

He looked at her in confusion before understanding. "Well of course we'll be needing two bedrooms."

Sherlock smirked as he put down his coat.

"Oh don't you worry, round here we've got all sorts. Mrs. Turner next door, she's got married ones!" Mrs. Hudson whispered the last of the sentence, as if it was a secret between her and John alone. While she scolded Sherlock for the mess he had made of the flat, John made himself comfortable on the mismatched chair across from the leather.

John considered for a moment whether or not he should mention Sherlock's absence on the internet. Again, the nagging creature in the back of his skull shook his senses, whispering about what his therapist had said about Sherlock being real, or, for her argument's sake, not real. John still couldn't exactly comprehend how a person could create another person without even meeting them, sure it's possible, but his own personal degree of post-traumatic stress disorder alone couldn't be the sole reason for creating an 'imaginary friend', and he was cleared with no mental disorders when he entered and left the army.

"I looked you up on the internet last night…" John started.

"Anything interesting?"

"No… nothing at all."

Somehow, this was pleasing to Sherlock. He opened his laptop and furiously typed an address into the internet, pulling up a blog.

"It's called the science of deduction, had to put it under a pseudonym for basic precautions, sure you would understand, as you obviously have a blog yourself. But tell me, what do you think?"

John lifted himself with a grunt and limped to the screen, scanning an entry in disbelief as Sherlock watched him with an innocent and hopeful smile touching his lips.

"You're saying you can find a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes, and your military career by your face and leg and your brother's drinking habits by your phone."

John stuttered, "But… How?"

Again, Mrs. Hudson cut in at precisely the right moment, bearing a newspaper with headlines of three suicides. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought they'd be right up your street – three exactly the same!"

Sherlock's phone began to buzz against the table. "Four. There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time." He answered it on speaker, not politely with a hello, but with an all-knowing "Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's different about this one? You wouldn't have called me otherwise."

"You know how they never leave notes? Well this one did. Will you come?" The man asked Sherlock.

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock scowled. "He doesn't work well with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant." The man on the other end grew more impatient and irritated by each sentence.

"I NEED an assistant."

Ignoring the last statement, the man implored, "Will you come?"

Sighing, Sherlock consented. "I'll be right there, not in a police car, though." The moment Sherlock hung up he jumped in the air out of pure excitement. "Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." She scolded.

"Something cold will do. John – have a cup of tea, make yourself at home - don't wait up!"

Suddenly, the mysterious man was gone, flying out the door and down the stairs in a whirlwind of a long coat and a scarf. Mrs. Hudson began to comment on his dashing about, mentioning her late husband before John remembered he should listen.

"…But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll go ahead and make you that cuppa, you rest your leg…"

"DAMN MY LEG" John shouted. Realizing he screamed aloud instead of in his head, he was flooded with embarrassment. "Sorry, so sorry… sometimes this bloody thing…" He trailed off, not wanting to scare the frail and gentle woman.

Unknown to John, she was used to such random and violent bursts. "I understand dear, I've got a hip." She said with a reassuring pat.

"You know, a cup of tea would be nice…"

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"And a few biscuits, if you have them." John added as she began to walk away. She called back to him:

"Not your housekeeper!"

John opened the paper, which was left on the arm of his chair. The very same deep and smooth voice that had fled the room only moments ago returned, it's velvety sound slipping into John's ears.

"You're a doctor, in fact, you're an Army doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

John considered the question. Answering modestly and somewhat untruthfully would be pointless, Sherlock would definitely see straight through it. Answering honestly, John realized, could earn him a chance at venturing out; Sherlock did complain of needing an assistant.

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then… Violent deaths."

"Well, yes." He shifted uncomfortably, Sherlock's eyes following his every move, deciphering things not even John was aware of.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?" Sherlock led him on. John didn't know how to respond except with what was absolutely typical and cliché when anyone is faced with that question.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime" He corrected himself, "-far too much."

Sherlock had obviously caught on. "Want to see more?"

"Oh, God, yes." The pair rushed out of the flat immediately. John called out to the landlady, "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"Both of you?"

Sherlock cut around the stairs and grabbed her shoulders. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" He kissed her cheek and spun again, expecting John to follow.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." Mrs. Hudson laughed.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" They rushed out the door, Sherlock stepping out in the street, hollering "Taxi!"


End file.
